


It's like the whole world is jumping off a bridge (Lucky13 #3)

by megyal



Category: The Avengers (Marvel Movies)
Genre: Fake/Pretend Relationship, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-10-15
Updated: 2013-10-15
Packaged: 2017-12-29 11:50:10
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 5,323
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1005084
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/megyal/pseuds/megyal
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Phil returns during a battle and Clint's greeting is...intense, for lack of a better word. It's recorded on the news and is, apparently, great bait somehow.</p>
            </blockquote>





	It's like the whole world is jumping off a bridge (Lucky13 #3)

**Author's Note:**

  * For [snottygrrl](https://archiveofourown.org/users/snottygrrl/gifts).



> Written for the trope 'pretending to be married' for snottygrrl@LJ
> 
> Title from _Love, Selfish Love_ , by Patrick Stump. This mixes in canon from the Avengers, Iron Man 3 and the Extremis six-issue story arc ( _Extreeeemiiiiss_ ). Yeah ok the plot is weird I KNOW.

  
_Cause I've always been stronger than that_  
 _All the weight of the world on my back_  
 _It's just love, selfish love_  
-Patrick Stump

\--

 

The Avengers were made aware of Agent Coulson's return to life when he got back to work; which, in Clint's humble opinion, was kind of a shitty move across the board, but that was Coulson for you.

They were just wrapping up a relatively clean battle with a magic-wielder who'd thought it was funny to _melt_ things, including the building Clint had chosen as his high-ground. Fortunately, the softening effect was cancelled when Clint fired an arrow into her left palm, a small one that wouldn't be too damaging, but would definitely shake her attention from all that spell-casting.

The melter had collapsed to the pavement, clutching her injured hand with the other and screaming. She didn't notice the shadowy movement of the Black Widow a few feet away. She did, however, flail as Natasha hooked an arm around her neck and pulled her up to her feet again.

"Nice work," Cap called out. "Come on down, Hawkeye."

Another voice crackled over the comms as soon as Cap finished speaking.

"Good job, Avengers," this cool and horribly familiar voice said. "We'll take over clean-up, and any witness interviews."

"Who is that?" Steve demanded from the ground, because he'd never been on a mission with Coulson before, never heard the levelness of his tone, never been comforted by a competence so complete it was a mutant ability.

"That's--" Clint began, and he wasn't quite sure what happened after that, because he found himself on the pavement after a few rushed breaths. He glanced down at his hand with absent curiosity, watching as slender black rope reeled itself back into the shaft of the arrow which rested in his palm. Right; he must have fired this rappelling arrow into the concrete roof at his feet, flung himself over the parapet wall as soon as the arrowhead disengaged from the shaft, and descended down the side of the building at break-neck speed, the shaft tight in his gloved grip. He felt more than saw the arrowhead snapping back into place, because he had glanced up and spotted Coulson emerging from the back of a mobile command-post.

Coulson was dressed in his suit, except for his tie; it was missing, and the top button of his shirt wasn't fastened. His collar lay open to reveal a collarbone that seemed far more vulnerable than Clint thought it should have been. For some reason that tiny detail just kind of blew Clint's mind a lot, adding to the overall surreality of the moment. Coulson stood there at the back of the massive black van, his sunglasses obscuring his eyes. His arms hung loosely at his sides, his wide brow gleamed faintly and he's _alive_ , what the fuck was even happening here, he's _alive_.

Clint couldn't see anything but Coulson at the moment. He knew that Nat was to his left and a few paces back. She must have had some weapon in her hand, or her stride was aggressively suspicious, for Coulson reached up slowly and removed his shades.

"Oh, god." For a moment, Clint almost looked around, wondering who had said those words in such a low moan, the tone almost vibrating in hopeful desperation, and then he realised: _he_ had spoken. Coulson just stared at him, as if he was waiting for either Clint or Natasha to break and go wild on everyone. _Coulson should know better_ , Clint thought, reeling internally. They'd all gone through the training-sessions for shit like that.

Clint marched right up to him and Coulson didn't step away, even though Clint stood so close that their noses nearly touched.

"Hawkeye." Natasha's voice was laced with warning. Clint ignored her for just a little bit. He would have to make up for it later, but he was busy checking on the shape and quantity of hazel flecks in Coulson's eyes, matching with the info he could recall. It was amusing because any self-respecting shapeshifter or random deity or nefarious spy outfit would think to copy such a detail, but Clint thought his sight was more than good enough to pick up even the slightest difference. 

"It's you," he said, not quite a statement, yet not a question either. He could feel Natasha's stillness radiating like a chilly wave. Coulson didn't smile, but there was a lightening in his expression, a softening about the wrinkles at the corners of his eyes.

"It's me," he answered.

Clint said, "Sorry sir, but I'm going to break about fifteen rules of protocol right now," and he reached up with his free arm, slid it around Coulson's neck and hugged him very tightly. Coulson's body was very rigid for three frantic thuds of Clint's heart and then he relaxed, and put one arm around Clint's waist.

Clint turned his head so that his lips were right against Coulson's ear, the same way he would if he was whispering a code in the middle of an undercover mission carried out in a very loud bar. "I'm the easy one, sir. You got a lotta 'splaining to do."

He didn't let go, though. Thankfully, Coulson didn't seem to mind that Clint was holding him for so long, and tightly enough for the hold to be classified as a wrestling move; now and again, he patted Clint's lower back as if soothing a small, ill child. Clint became aware that his mouth was pressed against Agent Coulson's cheek as if he was attempting to draw the other man into his body through osmosis or something, and he released him.

Very slowly.

"Agent Romanoff," Coulson said.

"Sir," Natasha replied, and they both watched as she spun on her heel and walked away.

"Like I said," Clint said, staring at the rigid line of Natasha's back. "You got a lot of explaining to do."

+

Turns out, Tony and Bruce had a lot of explaining to do as well. 

" _This_ joker goes to Malibu for a few weeks and gets into all kinds of trouble," Steve had said, half-jokingly, half-enraged as he jerked his chin in Tony's direction; angry at whom, exactly, no-one was very sure; probably because he hadn't been able to throttle someone on Tony's behalf. 

Clint just figured Steve was pissed because he'd been sent on some intergalactic mission with Thor, leaving Tony to deal with all kinds of strange shit. Tony's disappearance from his Malibu house (and the destruction of same, Clint had left his fave pair of boots there) had been very distressing, at least for Clint; he'd been relieved when S.H.I.E.L.D had confirmed Tony's continued existence after they'd picked up an almost undetectable communication with Pepper. Natasha said that Tony had probably done that deliberately. 

Of course, because this was Tony Stark, there had been a lot of explosions and flames; Nat and Clint had been ordered in as back-up to some grand show-down, and warned to keep a careful distance because of this Extremis crazy-sauce. Clint hadn't been able to take down anyone 'infected' with the Extremis serum. Natasha had had better luck - he'd seen the charred material of her field-suit, and the rapidly healing burns on her arms. All he had been able to do was keep the un-Extremified folks from firing at Iron Man and the War Machine (because Clint wasn't too big on _Iron Patriot_ but whatever). It had all been very confusing and very exciting and Clint had wanted to just punch Tony in the face for taking all this on his own. From the small, guilty smile on Tony's lips, he got it. He sure got it.

Now, they huddled close together in the smallest TV room of the Tower, the ones closest to Bruce's labs, as thick as thieves or conspiring children. Tony sat on the floor with his back against the sofa, knees pulled up and arms wrapped around his legs. Steve sat on the sofa to one side of Tony and Thor on the other, book-ends that radiated watchfulness tinged with potential violence. Tony glanced up at everyone from underneath his thick dark eyelashes, because he knew it was charming as hell. Bruce and Natasha shared a large, padded foot-rest, and Clint was sprawled on the carpet, head near Tony's bare toes.

"It's weird," he remarked and Tony inclined his head so he could look directly down at Clint's face. "I actually miss the glow from your arc reactor."

Tony huffed and did something complicated with his expression. "Well, yeah. I miss it, sometimes. I _don't_ miss the decreased lung capacity or the always imminent cardiac failure, you know?" He shrugged. "Besides, me and Bruce tweaked Extremis just for Agent, after we fixed it for Pep, of course. I deserve a medal for that."

"You _both_ do." Steve glanced between Bruce and Tony with admiration glowing in his eyes. Tony preened, visibly, and Bruce smiled his little lopsided smile.

"He was...in bad shape," Bruce said, turning so he could look at the side of Natasha's face. Natasha looked back at him out of the corner of her eye. "Coulson was hanging on by sheer...just, force of will?"

"He's like that." Natasha's tone was begrudging, but not overly chilly. A good sign. Clint grinned up at her, poked her thigh with his bare toes. She reached down and pinched his ankle.

"Is he like me, now?" Steve asked, motioning to himself with a quick wave of his hand. "Accelerated healing, so on?"

"Kind of." Tony slumped a little and let his head rest against Steve's knee. Steve's fingers twitched, stilled and then tentatively moved to card through Tony's hair. Tony sighed before continuing: "A little faster. Little stronger. He'll throw off infections and poison real easy too, but Fury--"

"--said he just wanted his agent back," Bruce continued smoothly, because he and Tony apparently shared a mega-brain. Clint felt various kinds of fond for them both. For all intents and purposes, Coulson had been technically dead, held in stasis for reasons only Fury could understand. Clint couldn't help but wonder what the director would have done if Tony and Bruce and Extremis hadn't come along. Probably wrangle something out of Asgard.

"Well," Natasha murmured, and her tone was heavy. She didn't say anything else.

"I'm real glad he's back," Clint said, and she shook her head a little. "He didn't _leave_ us, you know."

"I know he didn't," she huffed, tossing her head in that haughty way she had. The rest of them remained quiet, even Tony. "I know."

+

Apparently, Nat forgave Coulson when she simply handed him a cup of coffee as he entered the common kitchen of the Tower, then strolled off to steal some of the pancakes that Bruce flipped out of the pan and onto plates. Coulson stared down at the red mug in his hand, a tiny quirk on one side of his mouth. When he raised his head, Clint looked away, not wanting to be caught staring.

"Thank you, Natasha," Coulson said, very quietly. Nat, seated at the breakfast island and cutting through her pilfered pancakes, simply shrugged. Coulson took a sip of his coffee, nodded in appreciation and then walked over to where Clint sat at the table next to the bank of tall windows which overlooked the greenery of Central Park. A newspaper was folded under his arm, and he pulled it out, handing it over to Clint before he sat down.

"I'm sorry about this, in advance," he said and Clint blinked at him.

"Sorry about what?" He opened the paper and raised his eyebrows at the front page. "Oh. Okay. Wow."

It was _them_ on the cover, there; Clint and Coulson. The angle of the large image was such that the details of their faces weren't clear, but their embrace was more than enough to make up for it. They looked like long-lost husbands, clutching at each other in the middle of the wreckage, smoke and steam rising around them. It was kind of dramatic, actually. _AVENGER HAWKEYE AND MYSTERY LOVER?_ The title exclaimed, and Clint fought down a mixture of embarrassment and intense longing. 

"Nothing to be sorry for, sir," he said. He folded the paper with more care than he thought he'd been capable of, placing it between them atop the table.

"The internet has been pretty rife with speculation." Coulson sounded matter of fact. "Another openly gay superhero. We suspect that Stark has been... _trolling_."

"I'm bi, though," Clint corrected, pouting a little. He made the mistake of glancing up at Coulson's face, and found amusement bubbling under that serene expression.

"I know," he answered and Clint wrinkled his nose. "Despite the erroneous labeling, the reactions seem mostly positive. There is, however, a situation."

A _situation_. Coulson's inflection was very slight, but 'a situation' definitely meant some kind of non-Avengering mission.

Coulson continued: "Director Fury and Lace Oliver from the Intelligence Division both want to meet with us."

Clint eyed him, the way he seemed to sit straight and yet seem quite relaxed, and said, "What, _now_ , sir?"

"Unless you have some avenging to do at the moment," Coulson answered, reaching out to slide the paper back to himself. "Which I highly doubt, because I haven't gotten any calls as yet."

"I still think you shouldn't even be getting any calls at this point in time." Clint got to his feet, communicating with Nat with a few quick glances. She wriggled her fork in his direction and then demanded more pancakes from Bruce, mostly via intent stares. "Let's go, sir. Whatever it is, at least we're in it together. Just like old times."

"True." Coulson stood as well, and spent a few moments staring at Clint in a deeply assessing manner. "I'll let you drive," he offered, and then walked off.

"You bet your ass I will, sir," Clint called after him and raised his eyebrows when Coulson glanced over his shoulder with a quick, enigmatic smile.

+

Coulson directed Clint to the new SHIELD land-based HR, disguised as an old but regal-looking apartment building. Clint knew the door-man, a 'retired' agent.

"Avery," Coulson greeted him and the door-man tipped his hat, holding one of the glass doors open.

"Good day, sir," Avery answered and then gave Clint a very wide grin, dark eyes twinkling under bushy grey brows. "Agent Barton," he said, a little more sing-song than usual. Clint resisted the urge to stick out his tongue. After the attacks on the Helicarrier and New York, Avery had been one of the few agents to treat Clint as he always had.

" _Ave_ ," Clint said and Avery dropped him a very salacious wink.

"You recall that Agent Oliver identifies as gender-neutral, and prefers they/them pronouns," Coulson said as they rode in the small elevator up to the seventh floor.

"Of course I remember," Clint scoffed. (He hadn't.)

Coulson's smile was very slow, almost indulgent. "Oh? You'll also remember that they have a weirdly intense devotion to your biceps and forearms?"

"Unfairly narrow observation, sir," Clint complained with a smile, because this rhythm was easy. "Everyone has this weirdly intense devotion to my arms. Have you _seen_ my field-uniform?"

Coulson chuckled at that. He teased and mocked a lot more than people thought he did; it was subtle, that was why most people didn't recognise it, but he'd been Clint's handler for so long. After a few months, it had been so easy to hear the difference between Coulson-being-deadpan, and Coulson-teasing.

He had missed Coulson-teasing. So very much.

"I have seen your field-uniform," Coulson replied simply, exiting the elevator before Clint. The corridor had a very thick carpet, and their footsteps were muffled as they strolled in a companionable silence.

Coulson stopped at Room 7-J, tilting his head to one side. A small panel on the hinge-side of the door slid open, and a quick flash of light travelled over his face, recording pertinent details. The door clicked open and they stepped into a small office, which then led right into a fairly large board-room. Fury sat at the end of the long, oval table, a dour expression of long-suffering on his face. Agent Oliver, straight black hair hanging around their narrow face, was talking _at_ him at roughly twenty words a second.

"Oh thank fuck, man," Fury breathed as soon as Coulson and Clint walked in, rolling his eyes dramatically. "Let's get this started."

"Agent Barton, hey, hello!" Lace Oliver said in a bright tone, getting to their feet. They smiled widely, keeping their gaze firmly fixed on Clint's face, obviously trying hard not to stare at Clint's arms. Clint grinned in return.

"Hey, Lace," he answered as he took a seat on the opposite side.

"Agent Oliver," Coulson greeted in a low murmur, sitting beside Clint.

"Sir," Lace said, muted but still rather chirpy. For someone who had been employed to SHIELD for quite some time, their constantly buoyant nature was mostly sweet, and sometimes kind of annoying.

"Begin." Fury waved one hand around in a lazy manner, and leaned back even more in his swivel-chair; he closed his eye, but Clint knew that while he seemed as if he was asleep, he probably absorbed more information that way than _Coulson_ , and that was saying something. Lace placed their translucent data-pad in the middle of the table. Bar-charts and numbers were projected into the air a few inches above it, with scrolling images to one side.

"First of all, people have been going _nuts_ over you two." Lace's long fingers fluttered in the air. "Blog-posts, videos, fanart, fanfiction, it's like an explosion."

"...fanfiction?" Clint wondered. That was super surreal.

"Uh, yeah." Lace stared right in his face, eyes innocently wide. "Just know that you guys are kind of unsinkable, ship-wise."

Clint leaned close to Coulson. "They keep saying real words, but I don't understand at all," he said in a mock-whisper. "It's like being around the Science Twins." Coulson didn't laugh, Clint knew he was probably cracking up on the inside. Not offended in the least, Lace reached out and waved one hand through the projection; it flickered to headshots of a group of people, their faces expressionless. Clint leaned forward, studying their eyes.

"This gang, they're not too keen on the whole non-cis and non-heteronormative agenda that you guys obviously support," Lace stated and then glanced at Clint for confirmation.

"Obviously," he answered, tone very firm.

"I've been tracking a few of their coded communications, and they've been in contact with A.I.M." Lace's good humour suddenly faded, and through the blue-tinged projection, Clint detected a hard gleam in their eyes. "There's going to be a series of charity events in Midtown a few days from now, in support of homeless kids." Lace paused, their lips pressed tightly together for a few moments. "Kids like _me_. Kids like you. I've confirmed that this group is planning an attack with some kind of 'de-gaying' gas, courtesy of A.I.M." Lace's expression was one of poetic distaste, nose wrinkled.

" _Really_." Coulson heaved a sigh. Clint supposed that it _did_ seem very preposterous, but they were in the business of preposterous these days. "Any available list of components?" Coulson asked as he pulled his own data-pad from inside his jacket. From the corner of his eye, Clint noted the way his fingers stroked along the screen.

"A few. Sent them over to BioChem and Dr. Banner." Lace looked at Coulson with a questioning tilt of their eyebrows and seemed relieved when Coulson nodded in approval. "Both confirmed that there seem to be no psychoactives, but there are indications of nerve agents." Lace took a deep breath. "They don't know what they have, sir. They're just these self-righteous assholes, and _they don't know what they have_."

"I'm convinced that A.I.M. is using their attack as cover for something else," Fury said, slow and drowsy, a far cry from when he was actively subverting the Directorate. "We haven't been able to pin down which event will be attacked, so I figure we give them a target we're sure of, something they can't resist."

"Us," Coulson said, evenly and a beatific smile spread slowly over Fury's lips. Clint very carefully did not look in Coulson's direction, and kept his breath as smooth as possible.

"Our newest SHIELD couple," Fury said and chuckled. "Man, Phil. You don't do anything by _halves_."

"I have no idea what you mean, sir," Coulson said in a rather stiff manner, and Clint dared a quick glance out of the corner of his eye. Coulson was giving Fury what seemed to be a _glare_ , but Clint had never seen him glare at anyone before, so he wasn't sure. Fury seemed to be right on the edge of laughing right out loud.

"I'm good with it," Clint offered, so quietly that Coulson turned his head and gave him a very long and very unreadable stare. "No, seriously. I mean, we can even say we're married, husbands for real. Nothing gets their goats like two badass dudes married to each other."

Coulson inhaled and exhaled in a very deliberate manner. "I don't think--"

"I do," Fury cut in, and actually snuggled back in his seat, eye still firmly closed. "Barton, get a ring on it. Oliver: push all that out there, make it Stark-subtle, and coordinate which event they'll attend. Coulson, advise Woo and Hill to follow up with A.I.M. Meeting's done, I gotta nap."

"Yes, sir," they all chorused. Lace allowed themself one long, lingering stare on Clint's arms before they sprinted out of the room. Clint got to his feet as well, his head spinning a little as if he was falling without the surety of being caught.

Coulson said, "Give me a moment, Clint. I'd like a word with Director Fury."

"But my _nap_ ," Fury drawled.

"I'll be outside, sir," Clint acknowledged, and spent a few long minutes leaning against the wall out on the corridor before Coulson emerged as well, the skin around his eyes pinched.

"Sir," Clint said and took his hand without thinking. All of Coulson went very still, watchful as Clint stroked his thumb over Coulson's knuckles. The pinched skin at the corners of Coulson's eyes smoothed out.

Clint hoped his smile was sure and smooth. "Just trying to get your ring size," he said, half-joking, half-serious.

"I'm sure Covert Operations has rings in our sizes," Coulson told him, smiling a little in return. He didn't pull away his hand, and Clint enjoyed the rough, dry sensation of his palm for a moment, before releasing him. "Let's get you back to the Tower."

"Sir, I think it's best if we go _Coulson-Barton_ with our married names," Clint told him as they headed for the elevator. "It's got a nicer rhythm than _Barton-Coulson_ , I think."

Coulson only sighed, but there seemed to be an extremely affectionate quality to it.

+

"Hey," Nat said, sneaking into his bedroom at the Tower as he finished dressing for the charity ball. "Tony's going to be here in thirty-six seconds. Want me to head him off?"

"Nah." Clint eyed the lopsided bow-tie of his reflection, and then turned to Nat, making helpless motions towards the limp curl of material at his neck. "This is so stupid, help."

Nat pulled the bow-tie and started again, knotting and smoothing it a few seconds before Tony actually _knocked_ at Clint's door. He shoved his way in before waiting for an answer, but at least he tried.

"Legolas, honeycakes," he said, leaning on the door-jamb. "Heard you and your SHIELD hubby's going to a party," and he waggled his eyebrows in the most juvenile manner ever.

"Well, yeah," Clint said, turning back to inspect Natasha's handiwork. Awesome, as usual. "Just me and my, uh, Coulson."

Tony let out a raucous laugh. "If Agent hadn't banned me from attending, I'd definitely go with you just to see you two get all kissy-face. Hey, how comes Cap and I couldn't be the married trap?"

"Come on," Clint said, smoothing down his lapels. "You guys are so high-profile, it'd be counterintuitive, you know? Besides, everyone knows it's all unrequited on your side, anyway. Coulson and I had it locked from that whole front-page thing."

"Yeah, totally unrequited," Tony said with a kind of sneering laugh. When Clint turned around, Tony had that look about him when he was ready to ramble on about distracting science stuff or get all insulting, one or the other.

"Hey," Clint said, cutting him off before he started. "Unrequited is like the best club ever, right?"

Tony blinked at him for a long moment, eyelashes sooty. His expression did something intricate, like an amused grimace, before it smoothed out into its usual self-assured state. Natasha glanced at Clint out of the corner of her eye. Clint twitched his shoulders in response.

Carelessly, Tony continued: "Anyway, we're on call if SHIELD needs something blown up. Don't go honeymooning without telling me, now. Bringing anything special?"

"Bang-o-rangs, baby," Clint told him, and Tony laughed in delight, rubbing his palms together.

"Fan-fucking- _tastic_!" Tony crowed. "So when you use them, you gotta tell me about the return speed--"

"You're going to be late," Nat cut in and actually smiled at Tony's exaggerated Face of Disappointment. It was funny how she could be charmed at a few of Tony's faces, but supremely annoyed by nearly all the others. 

"Okay,"Clint said. "Let's go."

+

Clint hardly focused the other guests welcoming them to the charity event as they strolled into small but brilliantly festooned hall. Clint waved, easily dragging out a grin but Coulson held back, shades planted firmly on his face.

"Come into the light, dear," Clint said between his teeth, reaching back for Coulson's hand.He grasped cool fingers briefly, and Coulson didn't tug his hand away.

"You know this isn't exactly in my job description," Coulson said, allowing himself to be led to a table. A waiter flitted over, pouring two glasses of wine with a flourish before stealing back to his post. 

"No one is going to remember your face," Clint told him, nodding at their neighbours, who seemed as if they wanted to ask for his autograph. "I'll deflect like a boss. They'll forget about you in a moment."

"Oh, darling. That's the sweetest thing you've ever said to me," Coulson purred in a dark, sweet tone. Clint went still all over, staring and breathing shallowly. The sides of Coulson's lips curled up ever so slightly and he removed his shades, placing them in the middle of the table.

"Was that a bit much?" he asked, still with that odd little smile. "I haven't had much practice at being a husband. Should I say that you look really nice tonight? Because you look really nice."

"So yeah, you're doing _great_ at this husband thing," Clint said and willed down the warmth which threatened to rise all over his damned face. "Really great. I mean, you got me here safe in one of Stark's rockets disguised as a car, we're having a nice conversation made mostly of compliments, it's all so romantic and shit." He bit the inside of his lower lip. 

"All you ever want in a marriage?" Coulson laughed. It was a fantastic sound and Clint was extremely fucked; not even in a sweaty-against-the-wall way, just like in a heartache kind of way and that _sucked_. 

"Yes, sir," Clint said, because he was brave like that. Coulson just looked at him for a few moments and then he slid his hand across the table, his cuff shifting up slightly as he reached out for Clint's hand. Clint inched his own hand across the soft tablecloth, and he was probably hoping too hard for something he didn't deserve to have, because the attackers burst into the hall with their A.I.M.-sponsored weaponry, just the way Fury and Lace wanted. They screeched at the crowd, and cries rose up in the air as civilians rose to their feet and scrambled away, clutching at their purses and glasses of wine.

"Right on time," Coulson said, and pulled away his hand, putting on his shades. Clint sighed, but he stopped to admire the way Coulson turned over the table before diving behind it. Clint ducked after him; he barely took cover when _something_ tore through the upper curve of the table. Not a bullet, but since it was A.I.M. they were dealing with, then possibly a projectile made of pure energy. Quite a few of the guests switched from their apparent enjoyment of the band to their regular dayjobs of SHIELD agents, following Coulson's lead in throwing over their own tables. 

Coulson jerked his chin in the direction of the band, SHIELD operatives as well, as he drew his own gun. They darted from behind their instruments after the civilians, herding them to an exit at the back of the stage.

If the targets had thought that Hawkeye without his bow and arrow was kind of useless, then it was time to correct that impression. Clint reached into his very nice jacket and removed about six boomerangs made of a dark, plastic-like material. He ran his thumb over one corner of a flat aerofoil.

"Return?" All the boomerangs squeaked as one, acknowledging Clint's thumbprint.

Clint grinned down at them. He loved these. "Sure, baby!" 

"Sure, baby!" The boomerangs echoed cheerfully and adjusted their shape in his hand. As Coulson covered him, Clint raised up on his knees. He glanced across the space of the room, assessing the location of the assailants: five of them crouching behind three large canon-shaped objects with three others standing near them, firing with long barrelled energy weapons. 

They were hooting and hollering, screaming every slur ever invented. Therefore, Clint felt no remorse as he released three of his boomerangs in quick succession, striking three gunners on the sides of their heads. They collapsed to the floor, guns falling from their hands.

"Good job, baby?" The boomerangs queried as they landed in Clint's grasp with Stark-engineered lightness.

"You know it. _Don't_ return," Clint commanded and launched another of three. The remaining attackers tried to weave away, but Clint had accounted for that and the boomerangs thudded heavily into torsos and legs, eliciting howls of pain. "Return," Clint told the final three and used them to whirl above the heads of the cannon-minders, keeping up a steady onslaught of near-misses, catching and throwing with an easy rhythm. He even managed to bounce them on the sides of the canons a few times, avoiding the activation panels and causing panic among the group. SHIELD agents crept up on the distracted targets and lunged at them, pushing them to the ground with an efficient sort of ruthlessness which had probably been learned in a lecture from Coulson.

The three returning boomerangs slid into Clint's hand for the last time. "Good job, baby?" they queried.

"Yep-yep!" Clint told them, laughing a little breathlessly at their chirps as he leaned back against the table's flat surface. He was about to get up and collect the other bang-o-rangs when someone grabbed him by his lapels. Clint nearly broke Coulson's fucking arms in adrenaline-filled reflex, damnit; that would have been _bad_ , because Coulson pulled him close and gave him a deep kiss, lips and tongue dragging languidly. Clint felt his toes curl in his fancy shoes.

"Good job, baby," Coulson murmured against his mouth, before releasing Clint and getting to his feet. He walked off towards the other agents, giving directives as he scooped up Clint's boomerangs and slid them into the inner pocket of his jacket; Clint peeped with wide eyes over the edge of the table at the straight line of his back.

He grinned to himself, delight flooding through his veins. Best marriage _ever_.


End file.
